


A Prison of His Own Making

by spooklock



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Case Fic, Coma, Johnlock Angst, Light Horror, Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:11:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17004882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spooklock/pseuds/spooklock
Summary: Sherlock is in a coma. To cope, he finds himself in several dreams, and eventually his mind palace, in which he's tormented by his own fears, the biggest of which being his feelings for John.





	A Prison of His Own Making

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by ask-weather-report on Tumblr: "“I have a concept: the two men are arresting a criminal and this one shoots Sherlock in the head. It’s not enough to kill him but it sends him into a coma. Sherlock wakes up locked in his Mind Palace. John, on the other hand, goes to see him every day to speak to him. The only thing Sherlock can hear from the real world is John’s voice and he tries to wake up in the real world because he realizes that they have feelings for each other and he would be a dick (sorry for the language) to die without telling John his feelings (in his way of course).” In regards to the length, they said “As you want, maybe make Sherlock realize he is alone in his Mind Palace and he needs John’s company? Maybe two or three? Five maximum? (chapters)”. 
> 
> To be honest, this is probably the fic I'm least proud of. I just feel like it could have been better. I hope someone likes it though!

Bleed

He comes to in a puddle on the floor. As his vision focuses, he can see lights ahead; street lamps, glowing like fireworks. He’s in a dark alley, a side street, perhaps a good half mile from the main road. It’s dark but he can just barely see what’s around him. None of this seems familiar. He sits up, studying his hands- they’re covered in blood, but it’s not warm, not fresh. It doesn’t even smell like blood anymore. He manages to stand without slipping, and upon inspecting himself, finds that he’s unharmed, although he can only tell due to the lack of pain. He’s so covered in blood, finding a wound, even a significant one, would be a challenge. He manages to walk to the road without hassle; nobody’s here, nobody screams at the sight of him.

The night is humid and still; he can see the lights of London illuminating a brighter blue in the sky up ahead. Out away from the city, he can even see the stars. He feels a flash of something, not quite déjà vu, but similar. Like a memory, a good one, tied to the stars.

_Beautiful, isn’t it? _He shivers with the feeling of familiarity, as if he had connected with something not of this universe. He feels weary, but he manages to get on the path to the road.

He doesn’t even try for a taxi; he learned from that dead pig/harpoon incident well. As he walks, his memory returns; he was chasing down a suspect, had him cornered even, when suddenly the man had pulled a gun. He remembers the shot, it rings in his ears still, but the man must have missed- Lestrade had shown up right as he fired, maybe he was thrown off guard? But things still don’t quite add up. He’s too foggy still to work it out.

The tube is relatively vacant given the time of night. It’s getting warmer outside, more humid. By the time he reaches his doorstep, he’s now sweating off the blood.

He cleans up and manages his way into bed.

Shock

The same four wooden floorboards creak under his bare feet, over and over, to the same rhythm, endlessly. This, too, has begun driving him mad. Sherlock has been pacing the same route in the empty upstairs bedroom of 221B. It’s sweltering; the windows are open, but this does little to alleviate the brutal London summer day. This, he thinks, must be the hottest day he’s ever experienced here- he tries to ignore the feeling of the floors nearly burning the bottoms of his feet. This can’t possibly be the actual weather. But this, pacing endlessly, becoming bored over and over with every new distraction. He’s tried composing (too hot to concentrate well enough), he’s tried deducing strangers from his window (nobody’s out; it’s too warm), and now even pacing is becoming painful in its own special way. This has to be hell, he believes.

Just when he starts to succumb to the reality that his brain may really be frying inside his own skull, his mobile goes; and, as if the hand of God himself had reached down and penetrated this personal Hell, it’s Lestrade with a case.

“I’ll take it, anything, what’ve you got?”

“Double suicide, strange circumstances. Kinda boring, barely a four if you ask me but-

“Where?”

“Meet me at the Yard, we’ll go together on the train. High Wickham.”

An hour later, Sherlock steps onto the train, Lestrade in tow, dressed in a linen suit, sans jacket. It’s hot, but that’s no excuse to break out the casual wear. It’s nearly a two hour journey; plenty of time for briefing.

Once they’re settled, Lestrade starts.

“Like I said, double homicide. Two blokes, found in a room at an inn. Locked door, locked windows, not even so much as an air vent large enough to squeeze through. They were supposed to check out Saturday morning; stayed for one night. When it got to be about two o’clock, after calls to the room and persistent banging on the door, the manager of the inn threatens to break down the door. Hearing no response, he does. When he enters, he finds the two in the bed. They appear to be sleeping, but-“

“Nobody’s out that cold if not under the influence of something.”

“Exactly. He checks one of the men, and he’s not breathing. Neither is the other. Calls a doctor, but as expected, it’s pretty tough to screw up a judgement that basic.”

“Right, well, I’ve dealt with the locked room scenario plenty of times so I’ve no doubt-“

“There’s something else. I don’t think it has much to do with anything but…who knows. “

“Go on”

“Coroner’s report shows they’ve died of different causes”

“Those causes being?”

“The first guy died of a gunshot wound to the head, which matches evidence found at the scene; the second of massive internal and external injuries- he looks like he was thrown from a car, some of the investigators think maybe he fell from somewhere high, but of course that’s-“

“Speculation, thank you.”

Sherlock considers for a moment, creepy smile spreading to his face. He tries to contain it but…

“Oh, that’s fun.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes, resting his forehead against his palm.

The room at the inn seems fairly in order, apart from the smashed-in door. The area is taped off, and for a change, nobody has disturbed anything prior to Sherlock’s arrival.

Upon investigation, he quickly isolates nine possibilities.

There’s one small suitcase, which looks as though it’s been packed to leave. In it, he finds items typically found in an overnight bag. He immediately calls Lestrade over.

“This bag reminds me of the one I’ve packed for myself for this case.”

“And…?”

“And…? Two men check into an inn, supposedly for one night, but only one overnight bag has been prepared. Lestrade, only one man came to stay overnight here. Look at the clothes- pants and shirts in only one size, that same buttoned-up and proper but not formal style- cable knit sweaters, checked shirts, slacks, brown shoes, cardigans- nothing else and no varying sizes, where are the other man’s belongings? And look-“

He pulls out one set of pajamas, neatly pressed, from the bottom.

“When you pack for an overnight stay, what’s the first thing you know you’ll need? Pajamas. And when you get ready to go to sleep at night, knowing you’re leaving early, wanting to save time, what do you do? Pack everything you no longer need- like your clothes, which you’ve changed out of into your pajamas. You take out what you’ll put on in the morning, put your worn clothes in the bag, and go to bed. But look- the pajamas are at the bottom, and these clothes are still on top. He never unpacked. “

“Okay, fair enough, but think about where we are and who we found here- clearly a couple, on an overnight stay in a romantic inn…maybe they didn’t need pajamas?”

“So why bring them if you know what you’re coming here for, Lestrade?”

“Mate, I don’t know, to tell you the truth I’ve not had much recent experience with these matters.”

He turns slowly, thinking.

“It doesn’t make-“

He stops, frozen in horror. Where the bed had once been empty, it is now occupied by two bodies under the sheets, hands clasped, just visible above the covers- but they don’t appear to be injured. No blood, no wounds. On the left, a smaller figure; blonde with graying streaks, short hair, visible dark circles and frown lines, even on the resting face. And on the right, to his horror, Sherlock sees a head and shoulders just above the covers which resemble himself.

He stares in horrific shock. Neither of the bodies appears to be injured in any way; in fact, they look as if they are peacefully sleeping.

Neither seems to be wearing pajamas, at least from the shoulders up.

He blinks, and rubs his eyes hard. When he opens them again, they’re gone.

“Mate?”

“J-Juh-umm…I…”

“What?”

“Do you have the ummm…the…papers?”

“Actually I have many papers. Did you have any specific ones in mind or will any do?”

“The c-coroner’s reports.”

Lestrade hands him the reports. The first page reads ‘Dr. John H. Watson-Holmes’, and there at the top is the picture from the man’s ID card. He feels something akin to recognition for the man, but he knows they’ve never met. He looks at the next report. The second reads ‘William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes’, with his own picture ID at the top.

Again, he finds himself frozen.

“Right, you’re gonna have to tell me what’s going on then.”

Sherlock gestures his own papers wildly at Lestrade.

“Do you not think this man bears any resemblance to me?!” He manages to eek out, tears brimming in his eyes.

“What? Who?”

Lestrade takes the paper from him and studies it with furrowed brows.

“Dr. James Moriarty…no, in fact I don’t think you look alike…apart from the dark hair and the creepy facial expressions.”

Lestrade hands the paper back, and Sherlock manages to reach out with shaking hands. He takes a look at the paper, and sure enough, Moriarty smirks back.

The next thing Sherlock knows, he’s doubled over, trying to breathe.

Everything goes black.

Pulse

Sherlock wakes up with a pounding migraine.

He feels a throbbing in his head that he never thought possible. It hurts to think. He wants to do something- take something, stretch, smash his head through the wall, anything- but he knows if he moves, he’ll collapse. He manages to sit up in bed and plant his feet flat on the floor. He stares at the wall, his periodic table seeming to shout back with swirling symbols which no longer mean anything (are these even numbers and letters anymore?). He sits. And waits.

Eventually, the pain relents. He can physically feel it stop, and it’s so miraculous, so blissful, tears slip from his eyes down his cheeks.

Checking his phone, he stares in confusion. The sun had been coming up when he woke up, but now it’s nearly ten in the morning. Lestrade has called six times, and there’s a tray of tea at his feet (which is long past being hot). Had Mrs. Hudson come and gone without his awareness?

He’s still delirious- he suddenly realizes he’s kicked over the tea pot, and there’s a voice in his ear speaking.

Did I call Lestrade back?

His phone is at his ear; that must be it. He hears only broken sentences on the other end of his phone.

“Sherlock…wake up…hear me? Please…if you can hear…shot…”

“What? Lestrade? I can’t hear you, you’re breaking up.”

“Miss you…hear me? …hand if you can hear me…”

The voice is far away, lower and different than Lestrade’s.

“Are you alright? I heard shot, were you shot? Should I call someone? Surely you called an ambulance before me.”

“…a week…surgery…be alright if you just…”

The voice stops for a moment, but then it comes in much more clearly.

“Sherlock, listen carefully. Do you remember the case? The cartel? You and me, running down the ring leader. We cornered him in an alley, we didn’t know he was armed. It took us months to figure out who he was and track him down. Do you remember at all?”

“Rubber soles…size twelve.”

“Yes!…”

Lestrade goes on talking, but his phone starts cutting out again.

“I can’t hear you, I’ll send you a text.”

He hangs up and texts Lestrade, but the words still echo in his head ‘…please…Sherlock…need to talk with you…’.

He’s so out of it he can barely see his phone to text, so it doesn’t much surprise him. He manages to write a message to Lestrade to ask if he’s alright, but before he gets a response, he’s overcome with exhaustion.

Deduction

“Back again, Dr. Watson?” a kind nurse asks as she passes him in the doorway of the hospital room. John nods, sleepily.

“Wouldn’t have to keep coming back if I’d be allowed to stay.”

“Family and spouses only.” She looks apologetic. John considers the possibility of slipping matching rings on himself and Sherlock just to simplify things, but eventually he gathers enough sense to recall that legal documents are not in place, and suddenly being married to the man in the bed who’s been out cold for a week wouldn’t get past many around here.

He walks over and sits in the chair near the bed. He studies the man for a while, taking in any new details which may have changed overnight. Other than the fresh bag of IV fluids, nothing new. He gets up abruptly and nearly yanks the chart from the end of the bed, studying the notes taken over night.

Nothing new.

Yesterday, Sherlock had undergone the second of two surgeries he needed; the first, emergency surgery, which he received upon entering the ER the night he was shot. The second, a procedure intended to alleviate pressure on the brain and allow more blood flow. Brain activity had increased significantly after the second surgery; everyone was hopeful, John included. But that wasn’t enough to quell him; just enough to finally get some sleep.

Now, he paces. He tidies random things that don’t need tidying, and then he replaces the quilt he brought from home, which always ends up thrown over the edge of the bed by a night shift nurse. He can’t stand to see Sherlock shiver.

John goes about the routine; he plays music on his phone- Bach, Debussy, Vivaldi. He reads unsolved case files, kindly leant by (stolen from) Lestrade’s filing cabinet. He reads particularly disturbing headlines; about cases wrapped recently, about politics in the States, even articles from rubbish papers in hopes that Sherlock will literally be bored out of his mind and wake up just to beg John to stop.

John tries.

He’s there all day, as per usual. Doctors and nurses, family and friends come and go, but John is the constant. He stays in the chair, and when they’re alone, he holds Sherlock’s hand, and tries not to think.

That evening, the sun is going down, and John is particularly strung out. He leans over the bed, still holding both of Sherlock’s hands in his, and starts stroking his long fingers and soft palms. He rubs his thumb over the knuckles, and feels the steady pulse in the wrist, reminding himself that he’s still in there. He’s still here, he’s right here, just out of reach…

John lowers his head onto the bed, putting his forehead in the palm of Sherlock’s hand, and quietly starts to sob. Big tears roll down his cheeks as he gasps silently for air.

“God, Sherlock, please…wake up. Please, just…come back. Come back to me. Please!”

He feels his chest start to constrict as he gasps for more air, not able to get enough. He bunches the sheets in his hands and tries desperately to conceal the sounds he makes.

“I…”, he whispers now, even softer than before, checking that no one can hear, “I need you here with me. I miss you. I need to tell you…so many things, Sherlock. Please, just…I know you’re in there,” John takes up his hand again, lacing their fingers together and squeezing hard, “If you can hear me, Sherlock, squeeze my hand…move your fingers. Please.”

John wants to do many things; he wants to kiss Sherlocks fingers. He wants to kiss the pulse in his wrists, his chest, his temples, his neck. He wants to kiss his lips. He wants to hold him and put a hand in his hair; he wants to feel him breather. He wants to feel his eyelashes blinking against his cheek.

He wants to say I love you.

But he struggles with these things. Until Sherlock confirms that he also wants this, John feels this would be a violation of some sort. Had they only worked things out before, long before, years ago, like they should have, he’d have felt more welcome in doing these small things, these things he knows would help his morale, and maybe, in his own soppy romantic world, help Sherlock find his way back.

The next day, John tries again. He tries for weeks.

One day though, after weeks of devotion, trying, not sleeping and heartache, he gets an answer.

“Sherlock, please wake up. Can you hear me? Please…if you can hear me. You’re in a coma. You’re okay, they say you’ll be oaky. You were shot and now…”

“…Lestrade?…”

John freezes. It’s been almost a month with no response from him, and now that he finally talks he asks for Lestrade of all people. He tries again, overjoyed with hope, and not at all ealous.

“I miss you. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me…”

“…shot, were you…? …call someone? …”

“I wasn’t shot, you were. Yeah, don’t worry, we called someone alright. About a month ago. You’ve had another surgery, they said you’ll be alright if you just wake up, please. ” John considers something. Maybe if he can help Sherlock remember the case, he can help him figure out what he needs to do.

“Sherlock, listen carefully. Do you remember the case? The cartel? You and me, running down the ring leader. We cornered him in an alley, we didn’t know he was armed. It took us months to figure out who he was and track him down. Do you remember at all?”

“Rubber soles…size twelve.”

The man’s shoes had been the final piece to narrowing down the suspects. It was such a minor thing; John had been shocked he’d been able to work it out based only on who was wearing what kind of shoes. For Sherlock to recall something like that, well, John realizes he’s not just in a coma. Sherlock is trapped in his Mind Palace. He’s awake in there, maybe John can help him find his way out…

“Yes! I knew you were in there. Listen, we’re going to get you out, okay? I need you to focus. ”

“I can’t hear you, I’ll send you a text.”

“I’m here, talk to me out loud. Please, Sherlock, I need to talk with you…”

But that’s all he was able to get verbally.

John sat and thought for a while.

John was pulled out of his thoughts when the thumb sitting on top of his fingers started tapping very slowly. As if…But no, it couldn’t be. But maybe…John stood slowly to look at Sherlock’s other hand. That thumb was also moving, just like the first one.

Texting.

Sherlock is still awake in his Mind Palace. If he’s conscious on some level…

He struggles with what to say. What can he say to really jolt him? He needs something more than just words. He needs something that Sherlock’s brain will recognize and remind him of John.

Suddenly it comes to him.

John jumps up and leans over Sherlock, taking his face in his hands and speaking slowly, almost shouting.

“Sherlock, if you can hear me…Vatican Cameos.”

The body in the bed freezes- a look, an actual facial expression crosses his face for the first time in weeks- it’s confusion, consideration, then recognition. As if finding the missing piece of information he needed to solve a case, Sherlock’s face resonates pure recognition, finally.

“John? Where are you?”

“I’m right here, can you hear me? Follow my voice.”

At that moment, the nurse comes in.

“I’m sorry doctor. Watson. Visiting hours are…”

“God, please let me stay. Get a doctor- he’s started speaking, moving his hands! Something’s changing, I think I can wake him if I have the chance.”

The nurse sighs.

“I’ll get doctor Marshall. I hope you’re right.” Her face is genuine, and she turns to get the doctor without the extra urgency John wishes she would feel.

Map

The floor is cold under his skin. Hard tile under his cheek and hands- he rolls to his back and looks up at the ornate ceiling, the grandiose walls, the many rooms and passages.

He’s jolted by realization, and stands immediately- this isn’t a place, not really. It’s his mind palace.

‘How can I be here? This feels real. I feel the floor under my feet…’ he walks over and grabs onto the wall ‘I can feel the wood, the carvings. How is this possible?’

He pushes the nearest door open. It’s a room he’s unfamiliar with. He doesn’t recall placing it here, or what’s inside. It’s an octagonal room, with padded walls, and chains, bolted to the far end, hanging limp down to the floor.

He steps in cautiously, feeling the padded walls, hearing his footsteps on the floor. Suddenly he’s drenched in a cold sweat, a terrible feeling of impending doom sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach. The urge to run throbs in his veins, but he’s frozen. He hasn’t built this room, but he’s been here before. When he was shot, before.

A familiar voice speaks, as if right next to his ear, and he feels death sink into his bones for a brief moment.

“Did you miss me?”

He bolts for the door, slamming it shut behind him. He takes off in a dead sprint, running so fast he feels as though he could be flying. Moriarty’s voice follows him though, always right in his ear.

“Here you are again, Sherlock, always in danger, always so close to death. Don’t you think John deserves better? Something more stable? I bet he’d realize soon after, sherlock- having you gone would be good for him. Why don’t you save him the burden Sherlock, he doesn’t want you anyway. Not like that. Oh, look at you! So hopefully, so devoted. You don’t really think he could ever return those feelings, now do you? Not really?”

He passes the wings of his Mind Palace as he runs, and memories come flooding back in.

London, his flat, his family, the cases, Mrs. Hudson, John.

John.

He makes a sharp left. He needs John. Even if John doesn’t want him; maybe something in his mind can help him at least wake up. If he can make it to John’s wing…

Up ahead, a door at the end of the hall grows nearer as he continues running.

He bursts through the door.

“Sherlock, if you can hear me…Vatican Cameos.”

“John? Where are you?”

“I’m right here, can you hear me? Follow my voice.”

“John I’m, I’m in my-“

“Mind Palace, I know. But you can hear me! Sherlock, it’s me, I need you to believe me.”

“How can I know for sure? John, the things I’ve seen in here…”

“Don’t believe him, Sherlock. How can that possibly be John? Don’t be silly. How could he possibly want you? You, the freak. The sociopath. The monster, the addict. Silly, silly boy…”

He feels weak. Those words run through his mind every day; to hear them spoken by someone else feels like despair in its most concentrated form. Sherlock doesn’t know what to believe. His mind has become his own personal Hell. Nightmares, inexplicable horrors, pain, real pain. His mind has played so many tricks on him, how can he know for sure?

“I’m just going to need you to trust me. “

Sherlock stands in John’s room. He turns, looking around, as if seeing it for the first time.

The details, the files and files of notes he has on John. Everything from his middle name to the locations of all 47 freckles he’s been able to spot and catalog. The way his eyes dilatate at crime scenes, when Sherlock plays his violin, or when he sees him first thing in the morning. He sees the little things John has done for him, the things he’s said, the way he sacrifices dates, chances for happiness, to be with Sherlock.

He stands there, in the sun streaming through the big windows, in the warmth of John’s room, the warmth he realizes is what he feels when John is near, and he finally, finally, observes.

“John, if I die in here, I-“

“Dammit, Sherlock, don’t give up so easily! I need you to try.”

“Please, let me say this. I’m not giving up, but I need you to know. I need to say it, in case I don’t get another chance. I’m standing here, in the wing I built for you, and it’s like I’m seeing it for the first time, seeing you for the first time. I knew that I felt this way before, but I never said anything. I believed you didn’t return my feelings. But now I see. I see the way you look at me. The way you treat me, the things you do which you pass off as friendship, but it’s not, is it? “

He walks to the window, and he looks out. He sees oceans and skies that go on forever. Forests that never end. He sees the stars, and the planets. He feels infinite, and he feels John, around him, with him.

“John, I love you too.”

He feels warm air on his face, and a nearness, as if someone is standing in front of him. He hears John’s voice, right in his ear, as Moriarty’s had been, but instead of danger, he feels peace he never knew possible.

“I love you.”

Sherlock reaches out, knowing it’s in vain, but hoping. To his surprise, a hand comes in contact with his; fingers lace together, and a palm rests against his own. Then, the sensation of another hand, on the back of his own, cupping and keeping his hand safe between two others.

“John, I can feel your hands. I can hear you. “

He closes his eyes, and the feeling of lips gently kissing his own sends warmth and electricity through every nerve.

When he opens his eyes, he sees John next to him. White walls, medical equipment. A hospital bed.

John smiles so wide his eyes almost close. He jumps out of his chair and leans over Sherlock, who now smiles just as wide.

“Thank God, Sherlock, I-“

The doctors and nurses rush in and find Sherlock sitting up, both him and John holding tightly to one another.

Plans

The smell of bacon and the sound of the kettle wakes him. He stays for a moment, flat on his stomach on the white sheets- the covers pushed back. A hot breeze blows the curtains away from the window. He sighs, and stretches, happily. Unrushed.

In the kitchen, John moves about making breakfast. He sings quietly to the music playing from his phone. Sherlock walks over and wraps himself around John, nuzzling his neck from behind.

“Nearly midday and you’re not even dressed.”

“Nearly midday and you’re still dressed,” he counters cheekily. “I thought we would spend the day together, no obligations or annoying tasks.”

“So did I.” John says, chuckling. “It appears we have a different idea about what that would entail.”

“Apparently so. I expected to wake up smelling you, not breakfast.”

John laughs.

“Well, have your breakfast, and then we can discuss the day’s plans. “

“Ugh…”

“Well, if we end up doing what you want to do, I can promise you you’ll want your strength.”

Sherlock doesn’t argue much after that.


End file.
